Click
by Zo One
Summary: Jaded celebrity photographer, Arthur Kirkland, meets the one man that can change his mind about celebrities with the click of a camera shutter.


**Click**

_Click, click, click._

"Tilt your chin a fraction to the left."

His model, a young woman of about twenty three and a graduated child-star, tilted her head to the right.

Arthur threw his hands up in the air, his camera held securely in his right hand as the strap snapped against the back of his neck. "Your _other _left! What did they teach you in school?"

Angelique Du Silvain had been famous and an actress since infancy, known for playing care-free and sometimes oblivious girls in teenage romance movies. Too bad she wasn't the same off screen as she was on. "How am _I_ supposed to know which left you meant? Mine or yours? I'm not a _mind-reader_!"

"Yes, I'm sure mind reading is above your capabilities." He was surprised she could even _read_ without a high school degree. He glanced over the number of shots he'd managed thus far and let his camera hang from his neck. "I daresay that's enough takes. Thank you for your cooperation Miss Du Silvain."

"Yep. Can't wait to see that ad. I'm sure I'll look fantastic as always." She pulled the twisted scarf from her neck and tossed it on the ground as she made her way towards the dressing area.

Arthur nodded, ignoring the actress and huddled close to his partner and wardrobe assistant, Francis Bonnefoy, as they poured over the takes together. "There must be at least one decent take."

"None of them have quite that _zest_ – the interest! The light is atrocious on her face," Francis said with a sigh as they started looking through the film for a second time. "She has been doing this for a long time, but she learns nothing, I think."

Arthur pointed at one shot. "That one. Just Photoshop the fuck out of it."

The crew was noisily breaking down the tall lamps and draped backgrounds for the shoot when Francis asked, "Why did you not take more time with her? It's obvious none of these takes are adequate enough."

"I'd rather drown myself than spend another fifteen minutes with an empty-headed, conceited "_star_". I wonder if it's too late to take on nature photography." With care, Arthur packed up his equipment, double and triple checking that he had everything and it was in good condition before he snapped the case closed.

"Pah, nature! Do not demote yourself so! Why take photos of sheep and flowers when you have so many beautiful people around you?"

Arthur shook his head as he slung his bag over his shoulder, slipping his pinky into the loop of the strap to hold it. "Beautiful faces do not denote beautiful souls, Francis. I'd rather photograph the ugly faces of all the kindest people." He made a sour face. "I've noticed over the past four years that a person cannot be beautiful both inside and out – not in this society."

Outside the air was crisp as autumn was encroaching upon the city. This time of year always made Arthur feel nostalgic for home. Why he ever left England in the first place, he couldn't remember. He must have been blinded by the false fame and glory of the American Hollywood – of actresses, pop stars, and models. "What an idiot I was," he muttered.

"You judge too quickly, my friend. Do not think they are all the same – I am sure you'll find one who is as pure as snow."

"Even the children are vicious snot-gobbling monsters. There is no hope."

Francis chuckled. "See it as you will, then. Just promise that you'll show up to next week's shoot. It's supposed to be a debut of an up-and-coming musician."

"Don't worry," he grumbled. "I'll personally let you know when I quit."

* * *

It was a windy Wednesday afternoon when Arthur met Alfred Jones. The young singer was prompt, nervously pulling on the collar of his buttoned shirt as he watched the crew begin set up before he was sent to wardrobe and make-up.

"He is a handsome one, non?" Francis asked him as they set up the lamps and tripods for the shoot.

"I find his look too typical – blond hair and blue eyes. Is there nothing more cliché?"

Francis gave him a disgruntled, side-long glance.

"I hope he at least is able to follow direction. I'm in no mood for argument today. If I must we'll reschedule, he's new and will simply have to agree." He inspected his camera closely, going through his pairs of lenses and making sure each one was clean and functioning. "We begin in ten minutes! Please get Mr. Jones out of wardrobe as soon as you can. I'm sure he'll need a bit of instruction before we begin."

The young artist was brought to the stage and sat on a barstool as a couple members of the crew scurried about the lamps to adjust them to his height. He wore well fitted pair of black slacks and a white blouse with a red vest that fit snugly around the shape of his chest, giving the effect of broadening his shoulders.

A young member of the crew rushed out from the wardrobe to sling an undone bowtie around Alfred's neck that must have fallen off.

"Are we finally ready?" Arthur droned as Alfred's hair was combed back several times by various members of the crew, only to find his thick blond locks wouldn't lay flat. "Just leave it for now. We'll pretend it gives him character."

Alfred squirmed on the barstool, one foot on the support bar and the other dangling to the floor as he fiddled with the edge of his bowtie. "What do you need me to do?" he asked, settling his hands into his lap.

"Just relax," Francis said. "Lean back. . . Ah, your arm is too stiff, bend it a little, yes, now please look at the camera."

The young musician stared down the camera, his mouth screwing up into an awkward smile that would have been passible for an unwanted family photo-op.

"Don't make such a stupid face." Arthur dropped his camera to hang around his neck like a bulky pendant. "Give us a natural expression! Not that look of despondent constipation."

"Well, I'm sor-_ry_," the young artist snapped, his face falling. "I've never done this kind of stuff before, so it's weird! I'm sure _you_ don't like being caked with make-up and set up to fry under hot lamps."

Alfred sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair causing a few of the aides to gasp in protest. "I'm sorry," he said. "Really sorry."

Arthur didn't say anything for a long minute, simply watching as the crew went about trying to fix the musician's mussed hair. "Leave his hair be," he snapped at last. "Tell me, what's something that makes you comfortable?"

There was a silence where Alfred screwed up his face in thought.

Francis cleared his throat. "I am no expert but. . . are you not a musician? I'm sure you must possess some love of music?" He urged Arthur to take his camera back into his hands. "Why not sing something to calm yourself?"

"That's a terrible idea," Arthur muttered.

"That's a great idea!" Alfred exclaimed. He leaned forward snapping his fingers steadily, lidding his eyes as he quickly thought of a tune. His leg bobbed up and down and he began in a low hum, a tiny smile spreading across his lips as the words slowly took shape.

Arthur forgot where he was, caught up in the lively gleam that stole Alfred's expression before he remembered the camera in his hands and began to snap photos in quick succession. It had been a long time since he'd taken shots of an impromptu pose – no one had been able to pull it off without wasting a handful of takes or upsetting him. But this Alfred, so young, he had a kind of unscripted charm – a delight in demeanor. Arthur didn't know how to react.

With an unguarded laugh, Alfred finished his verse and then sighed. "That really helped," he said with a smile, looking back over to where Arthur was snapping another photo. "Okay, so what do you need me to do?"

They spent the next hour changing the lighting, poses, and making small talk as Arthur finished using every take that he had allowed himself for this op.

"And that's the last," Arthur said, letting his camera drop once again. He gave Alfred and his crew a weary smile. "Pack up."

Immediately the background and lamps were being taken down and put away, the crew rushing onto the stage like ants to complete the task in record time. It had been a long while since there had been a photo shoot to last more than thirty minutes after wardrobe had been complete.

"We must have several good shots," Francis murmured as they huddled together over the camera. "It's been a long time since you've used all of your takes."

"Hmph."

After cycling through the photos three times, they both finally agreed on one shot. It was a profile shot of Alfred laughing, his blue eyes squinted jovially. Arthur admired the strong lines of the musician's nose and jaw, the contrast of his adam's apple against the white of his shirt. He decided that Alfred wasn't as plain as he had previously professed.

Alfred came out of the dressing room with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder as Arthur was packing up his camera with his usual care.

Francis looked up from the screen of his iPhone and smiled. "Does the make-up remover not feel refreshing? It's like an ocean breeze on a sweltering day, I feel."

"Yeah, hah, it's kind of like that," Alfred said, switching his bag over to his other shoulder. "I wanted to say thanks, you know, for taking up this op. My manager says I should be lucky that you bothered. You normally don't work with newbies – or I mean that's what I hear."

Arthur snapped his camera case closed. "That's correct." He glanced over at Francis. "However, I can say that it was a. . . pleasant experience working with you, Mr. Jones."

"Just call me Alfred."

". . . Alfred."

Francis stuffed his phone into his pocket. "My ride is here." He stuck out his hand to shake Alfred's. "Thank you for coming today and if you ever had need of us again, please mention us to your manager!"

Alfred grasped Francis' hand tightly and laughed. "Of course. Thank you guys too!" He turned to Arthur and stuck out his hand as well as Francis left. "It was great to meet you, you know. You're pretty famous in the groups."

"Famous or notorious?" Arthur asked as he took hold of Alfred's hand. "I know my reputation in the babbling circles of air-headed celebrities."

When he was this close to the musician, it was hard not to admire how symmetrical his face was, or the peachy tone of his skin, or the brushing layer of his hair just above his arched brows. Why wasn't Alfred Jones an asshole?

"A little bit of both," Alfred said, breaking Arthur's reverie. He had yet to let go of Arthur's hand. His fingers slowly slid up to the photographer's wrist, gently rubbing circles beneath his sleeves. "But I don't think you're as horrible as they all say. You're. . . very nice. Professional."

Arthur coughed. He could feel his cheeks numbing in embarrassment. He slipped his hand from Alfred's grasp, their fingers brushing together without their mentioning. "I. . . thank you." He desperately wanted to invite this pure boy out for tea, coffee – anything, but. . . . Arthur coughed again. "Keep our card. I would enjoy another photo shoot with you. You are an excellent. . . subject."

He grabbed his camera case and moved for the door, casting a furtive glance towards Alfred. "Farewell Alfred."

"Don't you worry," he heard Alfred call after him as he hopped down the stairs, his heart racing. "I'll definitely call you guys again! I'm sure we'll be seeing _much_ more of each other!"

Arthur certainly hoped so.

* * *

_A/N: _This was meant to be a commission fic for AngelDemon101 and it's been a loooong time and I feel terrible but I hope that they like it. (Please?)

Also hello I'm not dead. Busy but not dead.


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